Belinda Bauer - Rubbernecker

‘That’s helpful.’

‘Not really,’ said Patrick. Then, after a short pause while they both stared at Mrs Deal’s hand, he went on, ‘It could mean lots of things. Or nothing. Thirteen. Or eighty-five. Or it could be simple code, like for the alphabet. The eighth letter is H and the fifth is E.’

They both looked down at Mrs Deal’s still finger and waited. Meg giggled nervously. ‘Watch, I bet she won’t do it now!’

But she did.

Eight and then five.

And then sixteen.

‘There goes your theory!’ laughed Meg.

‘P,’ said Patrick.

‘HEP,’ said Meg. ‘Help?’

Patrick ignored her. Mrs Deal was tapping again. For a long time without a break.

‘U,’ said Patrick.

‘HEPU?’ Meg screwed up her face. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Get a pen,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s starting again.’

Meg took a pen from her bag and wrote on the rear inside cover of The Da Vinci Code .

Mrs Deal tapped and Patrick called out the letters and Meg wrote them down in one neat stream of randomness.

Finally Mrs Deal’s finger rested. They waited but there was no more.

Patrick looked over Meg’s shoulder as they ran their eyes across the letters, looking for natural breaks.

They both saw it at the same time, and Meg felt a weird tingle lift the hairs on the back of her neck, all the way up to her ears.

‘HE PUSHED ME,’ said Patrick.

Monica didn’t like the crib either. She agreed with Tracy that the traditional wooden bars were too masculine, and then agreed with her again about the one with the fairy-tale canopy.

‘I mean,’ she said, ‘you’re having a girl, not a monkey !’

Tracy giggled, but thought that that was pretty rich, coming from someone who had brought nothing but a pair of home-knitted bootees and a bottle of Asti Spumante to her baby shower. She didn’t say anything though, because although six friends had said they’d come, Monica had been the only one who’d actually turned up. Also because Monica had been quite adamant that Tracy would have a baby that weighed no more than seven pounds, ‘because that’s all you look like you’ve gained’.

‘It’s scientific,’ she’d added, stubbing out her cigarette with authority, and Tracy had had another cupcake.

Monica did too. There were dozens of them, all with pink icing and little silver balls. Raymond had agreed that she could have the shower at his house. She told him it was because it was closer for everyone, but really it was so she could show off.

‘Maybe you could swap it,’ said Monica.

‘What? The baby?’

They shrieked with laughter; Asti was fizzy as hell.

‘The crib . I bet Mothercare would take it back and he’d never even notice.’

‘I’m not sure about that ,’ said Tracy. ‘He notices everything .’

That was true. Badly squeezed toothpaste and drips on the toilet seat were prime among them.

Monica shook her head, dismissing all men with a wave of a cupcake. ‘Oh, they never notice stuff like that. He probably just went in and bought the first one he saw.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so.’

After Monica left, Tracy vacuumed the rug around where her feet had been, and thought about the crib.

She didn’t plan to have another baby, so this was her only chance of a fairy-tale canopy. She’d always regret it if she didn’t get exactly what she wanted.

She went through the bathroom bin and found the price ticket. £895. Incredible.

Then she called Mothercare and asked whether she could exchange the crib for the fairy-tale one.

The lady on the phone was as nice as pie. She checked the prices and said that the crib with the canopy was actually only £650, so there would be a refund as well, as long as Tracy had the receipt.

‘Oh, I don’t,’ said Tracy. ‘My husband has that. I don’t want to ask him for it because I don’t want him to know I’m exchanging the crib he bought.’

‘I totally understand,’ said the nice lady, ‘but I’m afraid in that case it would just have to be a straight swap.’

Tracy was a bit cheesed off about that. Bloody Mothercare, making money on the deal! Still, she really wanted the fairy-tale crib, so said that that would be OK.

The lady only needed the code off the price tag, but when Tracy gave it to her there was a long pause, while there were the clicks of a computer keyboard and a few puzzled little sounds.

‘I’m not sure that’s one of our models,’ the woman said slowly.

‘It’s got Mothercare on the ticket.’

‘Has it? Hold on.’ More clicking and soft, internal noises.

‘Ah yes, here it is,’ said the woman. ‘But it’s not current stock. I’m afraid that means we wouldn’t be able to exchange it, after all.’

‘He only bought it two weeks ago,’ said Tracy.

‘From which branch?’

‘Yours, I suppose. We only live a few miles away.’

More clicking.

‘I’ve just checked, madam, and that particular crib hasn’t been stocked in any of our stores for at least two years.’

‘That’s impossible,’ said Tracy crossly. ‘He bought it two weeks ago!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think I’d notice a bloody great wooden cage in my house if it had been there any longer!’

That wasn’t strictly true; she didn’t live here, after all. There was a garage she’d never been in, and a hatch to an attic at the top of the stairs. But it sounded true, and that was the main thing.

There was a longish silence at the other end of the line. ‘Perhaps he bought it elsewhere? Secondhand?’

‘He wouldn’t buy it secondhand!’ spat Tracy. ‘He’s rich .’

‘Well,’ said the lady coolly, ‘he didn’t buy it from us in the past two years, and it is no longer current stock, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘Fine!’ said Tracy and slammed down the phone.

‘Fucking bitch!’ she yelled at the vacuum cleaner, then she frowned hard at the ticket on the crib.

Raymond was rich. He had a big house and an expensive car, and Tracy had found his bank statements while he was in the shower. He didn’t need to buy anything secondhand. The crib still had the tags on it. It must be new!

Maybe he’d hidden it from her for a while, as a surprise. Raymond didn’t like surprises, but maybe he’d made an exception. Maybe he’d bought it as soon as he’d found out she was pregnant. Maybe there was an Aladdin’s cave of gifts for her up in the attic, waiting to be dispensed.

He was a dark horse.

She should just ask him, really, but Raymond was not the kind of man you could just ask . He didn’t get angry, but he did get quiet, which was worse.

Tracy glanced at the mantel clock; he wouldn’t be home for an hour. Plenty of time to see what she could find.

She giggled and finished what was left of the Asti, which was only a gulp. Then she went upstairs carefully, holding on to the banister. The stairs were steep, and Jordan/Jamelia/Jaden unbalanced her even at the best of times.

She found the pole that Mr Deal – Raymond – kept behind the bathroom door. It was heavy and wooden and the brass hook on the end was tiny and had to go into what seemed to be an even tinier brass ring on the attic hatch. The pole waved and wobbled in her hand. Stupid thing!

She knew she was snooping and that that was a bad thing to do, but if Raymond didn’t want her asking questions, he shouldn’t be so mysterious! Buying her a crib that was two years out of date. Getting baby clothes without her. And all the wrong colour, when they knew they were having a girl. What was wrong with him?